


Resisting Arrest

by SweetestHoney



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Vibrators, and so much, it is so indulgent, lemon and I had so much fun writing this though, this is not for the faint of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21759493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetestHoney/pseuds/SweetestHoney
Summary: Peter gets pulled over and has a bit of a situation. Written in collaboration with lemon_meringue because we're both perverts and had far too much fun doing this
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 175





	Resisting Arrest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemon_meringue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/gifts).



> Lemon and I had a hell of a time writing this, I'm gonna try not to spoil anything so I'll just say 'enjoy'! :)

“Forgetting something?” Quentin asked in a sing-song voice, and Peter shot him a questioning glance. Quentin held something up with one hand and Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“There is no chance I’m going to wear that in public.” Quentin leered and tossed the object underhand at him. Peter caught it with ease, holding the vibrator plug up to inspect it in the light. It had been a gift from Quentin, somewhat as a joke, but Peter got the feeling that it wasn't intended to be quite as funny as he took it. Quentin was rather possessive sometimes, and Peter could admit that he didn’t entirely _dislike_ the idea of being owned so completely. 

Still, as he held it up he wrinkled his nose, looking from the toy back to Quentin again. Quentin smirked at him, and Peter rolled his eyes again. “Really? You think I’m gonna wear this to the store? I thought you didn’t even want to come with me.” Quentin lifted an eyebrow and held up something small and shiny. The remote to the toy, which boasted about having limitless range so it could be controlled from anywhere. 

Peter scoffed, but didn’t put the plug down. Quentin’s eyes narrowed, and Peter gulped at the sudden predatory look in his eyes. 

“What was that, baby boy?” Peter took half a step backwards, eyes darting around for escape routes. He wasn’t _actually_ scared, of course. But, maybe a little intimidated. Quentin, when he got set on something, was very hard to deter. 

Before he even had a chance to move, Quentin pounced, pinning Peter to the wall behind him with a growl. Peter sucked in a breath, clenching his teeth as he felt Quentin's lips brush his ear. "Now don't tell me you don't want to wear it, Peter. You’re forgetting that I know you too well." Peter swallowed, unsure how to deal with his sudden status as 'prey'. 

Quentin wedged a knee between Peter's thighs and the smaller man’s legs parted easily, letting Quentin manhandle him against the wall. 

"I - _Quentin_ , I can't - I'm not going to wear it outside, that's - that's so _bad_." Quentin's deep laugh near Peter's ear sent shivers down his spine and he shuddered, unsure. "Quentin please, I - _I can't_ , what if someone notices?" 

Quentin kissed just under his ear and drew back from him, smirking still. "What, do you think people are actually staring at your ass that much?" Peter flushed and opened his mouth, but no defense came out. Quentin gave a small smile and continued, "Come on, Peter. I'll be here, I'll have the remote, just imagine how much _I'll_ be squirming, thinking about you out there in the world, so turned on you can't even think straight. It'll be torture for me too." Peter bit his lip, considering. 

"I don't - I'm still not entirely comfortable w-" Peter cut off abruptly as Quentin fastened his mouth on Peter's neck, sucking and licking, leaving what would surely be a sizeable mark. Peter groaned, tilting his head so Quentin would have better access. "O-Okay, maybe you can, ah, okay yeah fine just do it, fuck that feels good-" Quentin took advantage of Peter's distraction and manhandled him to their couch, pushing Peter so he fell heavily, Quentin right behind him. While Peter stayed on the couch, Quentin slipped to the floor, kneeling in between Peter's thighs.

He pushed the smaller man’s legs apart, smirking, and his hands flew to Peter's button and fly, undoing the jeans in seconds. He tugged until they were halfway down Peter's legs, tangling his knees together, and Peter wriggled uncomfortably. Quentin finally got the jeans off altogether and tossed them to the side, turning to face his boyfriend again. 

Peter was already flushed and panting, and as Quentin ran his hands up Peter's legs, he squirmed, realizing what he’d just agreed to. "Wait, Quentin, m-maybe this isn't the best idea, I don't know." Quentin didn't respond to that other than giving a contemplative hum. Instead he just leaned forward and took Peter in his mouth, swallowing him down to the root. Peter's reply wasn't coherent so much as it was a wordless wail as he fisted both hands in Quentin's hair and jackknifed upwards, hips jerking into Quentin’s mouth. 

With the movement, Quentin got access to his ass and the older man’s hands pushed at Peter's thighs, spreading them even further. Quentin pulled off Peter's cock with a wet noise, making Peter whimper, hands trying to tug Quentin's head back down. The man just smiled though, amused by his eagerness, and licked a stripe up Peter's inner thigh. "Not yet, baby boy, you gotta be good to get your reward." _Not fair._ Peter whined, wriggling, and Quentin's hands tightly gripped his thighs, holding him still. The sharp feeling of the older’s fingernails and the heaviness of his palms on Peter's skin was enough to quiet him down, and he stilled. 

Quentin leaned in close and Peter's hips tilted up, wanting to get the man’s mouth on his dick again. But Quentin bypassed it, nosing under his balls and letting the tip of his tongue trace down Peter's sensitive skin. Peter keened, twisting to grab handfuls of the cushions on either side to ground himself. It didn't work that well.

When Quentin ran the flat of his tongue along Peter's sensitive rim he nearly screamed, tension thrumming through his whole body. 

"Q-Quentin, please - I don't, I can't take that much teasing."

Quentin leaned back, shooting Peter a grin. "Oh, you can take the teasing. And you will, Peter, because you're not coming until you get back." Peter gulped, blinking as he took in Quentin's words. 

"W-What? What do you mean? You can't just get me all worked up like this, Quentin, that's not fair." He pouted at Quentin, but the man just grinned at him and ducked his head to lick along Peter’s shaft. Peter whined and tried to grab a fistful of Beck’s hair and force him onto his dick but Beck was too fast and twisted away from Peter’s hand. 

With two movements, Quentin turned the tables, hauling Peter up and flipping him over before pushing him down over the back of the couch. Quentin was on him even before he landed, chest pressing against Peter’s back as he kissed his way down Peter’s spine. Peter wriggled against his new position, but Quentin held his wrists behind his back and Peter quickly gave up on struggling, settling in to enjoy the process. 

Quentin wasted no time kissing his way down Peter’s back until he was licking Peter’s cheeks, pressing a soft bite into the meat of Peter’s ass. Peter squealed and bucked up against Quentin’s mouth, wordlessly begging for more. Beck didn’t let him wait and licked over Peter’s hole, making him squirm with broad flat strokes before working one and then two fingers inside Peter as he licked him open. 

Fingerfucking Peter, Quentin leaned over and grabbed the lube from it’s spot on the table (yes, they had a set ‘lube’ spot on the living room table for the lube, and no, they didn’t move it out of sight when they expected company over) and poured it over Peter’s hole, using his fingers to make sure Peter was fully slicked. Peter wriggled again against Quentin’s fingers and Quentin set the lube down, freeing his other hand up to push neatly against Peter’s lower back, holding him in place. 

“Q-Quentin, please, I need - I need more.”

Instead of giving him any more, Quentin pulled his fingers out of Peter and Peter cried out, whining through his teeth at the loss. “No, please, _please_ Quentin-” Quentin picked up the toy that Peter had discarded and ran a hand over it, slicking it before pushing it inside Peter. Peter moaned as his rim stretched over the widest part of the toy before it sunk inside him, cutting off to another whimper as Quentin fit the toy against his rim snugly, the flared base securing it. 

“You’re not getting more, Peter. Not until you go out with _that_ , get me, uh, whatever it was that you were doing, and come back here without coming. Then you get rewarded with my dick. Not before.” Peter whined, not moving even when Quentin’s hand lifted off his back. He lay against the high back of the couch, legs spread and thighs clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he tried to get control over his body and stop humping the couch. 

Finally, Quentin’s hands wrapped around his hips, tugging gently. “Hey, Peter, c’mere.” Peter went, feeling off kilter at how _normal_ it felt to be wearing the toy, except for the searing pleasure on the round part of every step. Quentin helped him step back into his pants and fastened them, and as Peter walked around a little more, he got more used to the feeling of the toy inside him. 

He could do this, he could ignore it and the raging hard-on Quentin had left him with and go get a pack of gum from the gas station or whatever it was that he’d been doing, he couldn’t remember. 

Quentin watched him with mild concern as Peter pulled himself together through sheer force of will, going from a panting wreck to someone who could pass for normal if you didn’t look too carefully. As he watched, Peter met his eyes, raised an eyebrow, and gathered his phone and keys before leaving. 

Peter, much less cool than he’d portrayed to Quentin, stood on the steps outside the door for long moments, breathing deeply as he tried to remain in control. His erection pressed uncomfortably against his zipper, but there was nothing to be done for it other than hoping his baggy shirt covered the worst of it. 

When he finally got down to his car, he sat with a flinch, but made it. Pulling out of the parking lot and getting to the corner store was manageable and by the time he pulled into a spot to the left of the building he thought his erection had even lessened slightly with how much he’d focused on driving. 

Walking at a shuffle, he pulled his hood up and entered the store, hoping to pass his glassy eyes and labored breathing as symptoms of a cold, not a vibrator. He picked up the gum he wanted as well as some Tylenol Cold & Flu, smacking them on the counter and a bored teenager at the front. The kid didn’t meet his eyes throughout the entire transaction and Peter nodded at him, taking the bag before shuffling outside. 

Luckily for Peter, Quentin waited until after he’d exited the small store to activate the vibrations for the first time. When he felt the plug start vibrating inside him, Peter nearly fell to his knees as his ankles threatened to give out. He managed to finally start walking again, making his way to his car as the vibrations continued. 

When he sat down, he needed to take a series of deep breaths in order to focus and ensure he didn’t come involuntarily. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he focused on the car instead of his body and slowly felt the painful need to come receding slightly. 

With that thought in mind, he slowly started the car, tracing the route in his head as he did, so he was sure where he was going and that it was the shortest way to get there. He just needed to get home and he would get to come. 

The vibrations stayed pretty low while Peter drove, which he was grateful for, considering how he would have rather set himself on fire than explain to anyone that he got in a crash because his buttplug made it hard to focus. 

They got more intense once he made it out to the less busy roads, though. Different speeds and patterns pulsed inside him, making his legs clench reflexively, and he redirected even more concentration away from driving so he didn’t crush the steering wheel. His whole body was locked up, and his cheeks burning not only from how turned on he was but also from listening to himself gasping and whimpering in the car. 

Curse his enhanced hearing for not letting him drown out his own moaning with the music.

Once he neared the back roads leading to his and Quentin’s home, the whole risky game came crashing down on him. He got so swept up in the way the vibrations got more intense - sending hot pleasure to his already leaking dick and making him jump up, nearly off the seat, blurring his vision with tears - that he didn’t notice another car behind him. 

That was, until the flashing lights and siren turned on.

The sheer panic was just enough to break his concentration away from the stimulation, _just enough_ for him to pull over to the side of the road. Even as he parked, though, he couldn’t rid himself of the sensations. He wished he could take it out, or call Quentin and ask him to turn it off, but the _police officer_ was already behind him and he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing that or hearing him ask. 

(Especially because there was no way Quentin would, without a fight.)

Unfortunately, the mounting anxiety wasn’t enough to override how turned on he was. He tried to take calming breaths as he rolled down his window.

(He turned the music down, too, but not off completely, hoping that wouldn’t irritate the officer, _really_ hoping it would cover the sound of the _plug still vibrating inside him_.)

In his rearview mirror, the police officer was getting out of his cruiser and walking over to Peter’s car. Hoping and praying that the plug would turn off or dial down didn’t work. In fact, it seemed like with every step the officer took, the plug was _more_ intense, the pulses faster and more violent and he bit his lip to keep from moaning. 

Peter wasn’t going to freak out. 

Two hard taps on the window. “License and registration. You have any idea how fast you were going, kid?”

Peter started to freak out.

“Uh-um, I-I,” he stuttered, fumbling for his wallet and barely managing to hand over his I.D. without dropping the card. “I-I don’t know, sir.” 

That was the truth, too. He was busy trying not to _crash_ with how much the plug distracted him. 

A split second before the cop took the card, the vibrations _skyrocketed_. Peter coughed violently to disguise the noise it ripped from him, hoping the movement of his hips blended in with his ‘coughing fit’. 

The officer barely acknowledged it at all, only running through his I.D. with a look that took Peter a moment to place. Was it smugness?

Peter didn’t get the chance to unpack that. 

“You were speeding fifteen miles over the limit. What gives?” The officer bent over, putting both hands on Peter’s window to meet his eyes, sunglasses tipped down. “You in a hurry to get home to your _boyfriend_?” The officer asked. Peter frowned.

Part of his brain came to a screeching halt. _How does he know I have a boyfriend?_ That train of thought promptly derailed, however, when the officer handed back his card and the vibrations spiked again. Peter could barely keep his eyes focused, looking from the cop’s hands, one on his belt and the other slipping back into his pocket, to the front windshield, double checking there was nobody else around to see the interaction. 

The pulses fused completely and drove one constant stream of powerful tremors into Peter, pressing incessantly against his prostate, making him choke on air and cough for real. He squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could and balled his hands into fists at his sides, lest he break something in the car. 

“J-Just in a r-r-rush to get ho-home I guess,” Peter bit out. He was not going to survive. He was going to pass out and die, right in front of this police officer, because Quentin was going to _kill him_. 

The officer hummed. If Peter’s eyes were open, he would have seen the man tilting his head quizzically at the young man, frown on his face. 

“You’re actin’ mighty odd there, kid. What’s up? You high or something?” The officer’s voice barely registered with Peter. Fortunately, _surprisingly_ , some part of Peter’s mind realized if the cop thought he was high, that would only make things worse. He needed to shut that idea down _asap_. 

“N-No, I-I’m not high, I p-promise I’m not I’m just-” Peter cut himself off before he moaned involuntarily. , “-just, I ha-have a headache, I-I do-on’t feel very w-well, I s-s-swear I’m not h-hi-igh!” It was a bullshit excuse, but the vibrations had jumped, plummeting to nothing at all then soaring to the highest intensity every couple of seconds, and Peter could barely _think_. 

(He wasn’t not sure which was worse - the fact that the police officer was about to see him come in his pants, or the fact that there was _no way_ he could hide it from Quentin.)

The cop made a disbelieving sound and knocked a knuckle against the side of the car. “Hey, open your eyes and look at me. _Now_.” 

Peter wanted to shake his head. He wanted to get out of there, he wanted this to be over, and more than that, he really, _really_ wanted to come. But what was he supposed to do? Disobey the _police officer_ that pulled him over? 

Forcing himself to turn his head and look up at the man was torment. Forcing himself to open his eyes and meet the officer’s gaze was even worse. 

The man looked to be in his early thirties, probably, with his hair buzzed so short he was nearly bald and black, rectangular shield style sunglasses that hid his eyes and eyebrows completely once he pushed them back up his nose. His uniform was black, spotless, and the badge above his breast pocket reflected the afternoon sun into Peter’s eyes. 

The officer’s frown lessened, though his lips pursed, like he was even more disappointed at Peter’s (no doubt absolutely pitiful and uncomfortable) face, but amused at the same time. It was deeply confusing and Peter didn’t get a second to analyze it before the man shook his head and rapped his knuckles on the door again.

“‘Not high’ my ass. You look like a tomato and your eyes are bloodshot, you’re driving irresponsibly and acting like a crazy person. That’s it, kid, outta the car. Come on, move it.” 

_Oh no, no no no, this wasn’t happening._

Peter gulped, but even before he could brace himself, there were hands pulling his door open and dragging him out into the sunlight. He blinked, trying to focus, but his eyes were too blurry with tears and the cop was still moving him, so he didn’t have a great frame of reference. 

The officer didn’t just stand him up and let go of him, though. He half pushed, half walked Peter over two steps to the front of his hood, right next to the windshield. The added friction and movement didn’t help Peter’s situation at all; as he moved, the plug rubbed his prostate mercilessly. 

Logic and context telling him what was about to happen and actually experiencing it were two different things, and Peter watched the events unfold with an almost detached horror. 

The officer, as he handled Peter, kicked a leg out to separate Peter’s feet while pressing the smaller man against the hood. He spread Peter’s legs with two sharp smacks to the insides of his ankles and Peter flinched instinctively, tensing up over his whole body in an effort to remain upright. As he did, he flexed down on the plug inside him, causing it to rub extra hard against his prostate. 

That tiny fraction of additional stimulation was enough to tip Peter over the edge. His orgasm ripped up and down his spine even as the officer’s hand clamped down on the back of his neck. The hard, calloused palm was warm against his skin, oddly comforting despite the situation. 

The palm pressed him down and he had no choice but to go, slamming down on the hood with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Even as his brain caught up with reality and he realized he was coming in his jeans while being bent over the front of his car by a police officer, the impact of his chest on the hood and the hormones already swirling around his body caused a secondary reaction.

He burst into tears.

Usually when Peter felt tears coming on, he was doing one of two things: watching a movie with very dramatic musical cues (to this day he can’t watch the end of the Chamber Of Secrets without tearing up), or chopping onions. When he got hurt, he was either knocked out until he healed or the damage wasn’t tear-worthy - when he thought about it, the last time he’d cried from pain had actually been before the spider bite. 

But, at that moment, as his head slammed down on the hood, Peter felt himself take one long hitching breath, and then another, and then he couldn’t get enough air. He was outright sobbing, still coming off the tail end of his orgasm, and his whole body was a maelstrom of sensations. 

The hand left the back of his neck but he couldn’t focus enough to pay attention to why. He could only hear the sounds of his own breathing caught in his throat, and the tears in his eyes kept him from being able to focus on anything. 

“What’s wrong with you?” The disgust he could hear in the officer’s voice was clear, and he turned his head, leaning his ear on the cool metal of the hood. Peter hoped the man was just irritated with him, but anxiety made him terrified that the cop knew what he’d just done. 

“I-I-I’m - I’m s-sorry, Officer, I’m-” He sniffed loudly, trying to clear his nose, and focused on his words. It was still incredibly hard to concentrate on anything besides the vibrating that _hadn’t stopped_ in his ass, and he wriggled, trying to find a way to lean on the car that eased the overstimulation. There wasn’t one. 

He pulled back, to try to get a clear breath and hope that the officer would let him up, but as soon as he started lifting his head he felt a hand on his neck, forcing him back down. He whimpered, hips rocking into open air as he tried to get more friction where he needed it, already feeling the sticky texture in his jeans. 

When the officer next spoke, he leaned down close to Peter’s ear, and Peter shivered at the feeling of the man behind him. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I’m not putting up with any of your bullshit. You stay _right here_ , _silent_ , and don’t try to move while I make sure you don’t have any weapons on you.” Peter groaned softly, still sniffling, but managed to finally take one full breath. He focused on breathing deep as cop knelt down to start feeling his ankles and checking his shoes. 

Peter’s breath stayed steady as he focused on it, but soon he realized that he was already starting to get hard again from the feeling of the vibrator inside him and the officer’s warm hands. 

Slowly moving up Peter’s legs, the officer felt around the areas that could conceal any kind of weapons, taking his time and being _very_ thorough. Peter fought the urge to wiggle as the touches made their way higher, up to his knees.

The officer was nothing but professional, if not a little slow as he frisked the smaller man, but Peter still squirmed. He knew once the cop realized that Peter’s weird behavior was from how _turned on_ he was, the man would know what happened when he’d pushed Peter against the hood. Peter tried not to think about it but failed, and his toes curled. When the cop’s hands finally reached the backs of Peter’s thighs, they paused and then pressed harder, as if feeling for something. After a moment the officer stood, leaning aggressively over Peter again, a hand to his neck. 

“What is that? What kind of weapon do you have on you?” Peter shook his head, trying to explain, but he couldn’t make his words work right. 

“‘S n-not a - not a _weapon_ , ‘s just a … it’s not a weapon, okay?” Peter’s voice trembled when the cop growled in his ear, and he whimpered softly, hating how his body reacted to the sound. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me, I know you have something on you. If you can’t tell me, I _will_ have to find it.” Peter’s breathing sped up and he choked, trying to get enough air into his lungs. 

“No! No, please, it’s - it’s not a-a weapon, it’s just, why can’t you just take my word for it?” He panicked. The officer made a disbelieving noise in his ear and then tugged at his belt, pulling his jeans down around his knees but leaving his boxers on. Peter sniffled again and fought a miserable groan. He just wanted it over with at this point. 

The cop used two fingers to touch his hips, checking for weapons, and then moved back, towards his ass. There was a moment of quiet pause, and then the officer seemed to put it together. Peter expected it to be over, but instead the cop growled again and reached up to tug Peter’s boxers down, exposing his ass to the open air. 

Peter yelped, not expecting the motion, and a hand slapped down on the back of his neck. “Do I have to tell you again to keep quiet?”

He shook his head, trying not to give away how much the barked order affected him, maybe even more than the plug still buzzing inside him. 

The officer crouched down again, level with Peter’s ass. Peter couldn’t see what he was doing, but he jumped when a hand touched the plug, pushing on it experimentally. The movement drew a cry from him that had the officer moving back up his body to speak in his ear once more. “If you make any more noise I swear to god, you will regret it.” Peter gave him a shaky nod and he moved back down Peter’s body. 

Peter didn’t know what the cop was doing now, but he didn’t hear a crunch of gravel to indicate that the officer walked away. After a moment he got his answer when he felt a hand grip his ass, squeezing hard and hurting quite a bit. Peter bit his lip hard to keep from crying out at the pain. 

“Is this why you were so worked up?” The officer’s hand was mostly gripping the meat of Peter’s ass, but his thumb drifted down to brush the plug, toying with it and pushing it slightly in and out. Peter inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut, expecting another reprimand for the noise. The scolding didn’t come, and when he squinted one eye open to look behind him, the officer seemed half in awe of Peter’s ass, staring down at him.

“It’s not a normal kind though, it’s like it’s got a control somewhere.” The man’s head snapped up to look at Peter’s face. “Someone else doing it to you, and you’re just letting them?” Peter had to close his eyes rather than meet the other’s gaze, and he nodded slightly as he did so. The officer’s thumb brushed the plug again and Peter flinched. 

“I bet he thinks this is, this is some kind of symbol, your boyfriend does. That you’re _his,_ that you’re wearing this for him,” the officer sniffed, distain dripping off his words. “What he didn’t realize is that you are,” he reached for the plug and pushed on the end, sliding it further into Peter and making him whimper. “so _open_ and _wet_ that anyone could come in here and fuck you like this, right now.” 

Peter didn’t have time to worry about what the officer would do next, because before he could even form rational thoughts in his mind, the cop pulled the plug out of him and stood up. He shuffled for a few seconds, maybe, then gripped Peter’s hips tightly with both hands, dragging him back. Something thick and wet touched Peter’s ass but he didn’t get the chance to process what it was until it pushed inside him. 

The officer kept going until he was fully seated inside of Peter, stretching him just this side of painful as he accommodated. It only hit him then that it was the officer’s _dick_ , which was much thicker around than the plug Quentin opened him up with. 

_Quentin_.

The thought of his boyfriend was enough to make Peter open his eyes, hands scrabbling on the front of the hood as he tried and failed to pull himself off the man’s cock. His movement only served to make the officer’s hips buck instinctively, fucking deeper into him. Peter’s hands came up, pushing against the metal of the hood instead of pulling, and he felt the officer’s cock thrust even further inside him, rubbing deliciously. 

“Y-You can’t, please, I - _please don’t make me do this_ .” Despite his words, Peter’s traitorous dick was already hard again against his stomach, the feeling of the officer’s cock _claiming_ him so deeply causing a lot of conflict in his brain about the correct reactions to the situation. Even as he tried to argue with himself that he didn’t _want_ to enjoy anything happening to him, he felt himself bracing against the car again, pushing back as the officer thrust into him again, with more force this time. 

The feeling made him moan out loud and he closed his eyes, unable to watch what he was doing. Closing his eyes didn’t block out the sensations though, and he moaned again as the officer nearly lifted him up, pinning his hips against the car with the force of his thrusts. Peter’s toes still touched the ground, but the majority of his weight was being supported by the cop, who held his hips up, fucking him harder as he did. 

For a moment the man slowed, made his thrust short and took his time dragging his cock out of Peter’s body, eliciting a long, miserable moan from the smaller and a groan from himself. And then he snapped back inside, so hard that he rocked Peter’s body against the car and Peter nearly slammed his head on the hood from the force of it. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” the officer rasped, “You’re so easy from having that plug inside you, just desperate for my cock. But still so _tight_ , baby boy, made to take my dick.” He bucked forward, impaling Peter with every thrust. Then he alternated between fucking mercilessly into Peter and grinding slowly in, easing his cock out in a way that rubbed every inch so deliciously that it gave Peter’s overstimulated, overwhelmed body no choice but to writhe in need before slamming in home again. 

It drove Peter crazy. He’d never seen stars before (other than that time the Vulture dropped a building on him) but there were definitely technicolor spots under his eyelids. He couldn’t even _breathe_ , every single gasp he tried to take immediately punched back out of him by the way the officer fucked him.

The man knew exactly what to do, where to hold and press and the perfect angle to make Peter whine and yelp. He was so caught up in how painfully good it felt to have the cop inside him that he barely had the thought to worry about someone seeing them. Hell, the officer was fucking him as good as _Quentin_. 

“Fuck-” Peter gasped. His boyfriend was waiting for him to get back, and there he was, bent over the hood of his car by a random police officer. If Quentin wasn’t already going to be upset with him for coming without permission then he would _definitely_ be pissed now. 

Oh god, he was going to be so mad. Worse: _disappointed_ , and _hurt_. Peter had Spider-Man powers, but he didn’t even think to throw the officer off him. It just felt too good, giving him exactly what he needed. The stretch, the brutal pace with painfully gentle blips, giving him whiplash and relentlessly stimulating his prostate. Everything the officer did felt _incredible_.

It shouldn’t have, though. The man was forcing himself on Peter, and Peter was just _letting him_. He’s the worst boyfriend ever. In the world. He would definitely take home the award for “worst human being ever” that night. 

But he didn’t even care, so long as the officer didn’t stop fucking him. 

“What did I say about being quiet?” The man practically growled. He wrapped a hand around Peter’s mouth, yanking him backwards by the grip on his jaw so every inch of him, from their flush legs and hips, up through their torsos and the back of Peter’s head, was pressed against the cop. His nape was uncomfortably pinned to the officer’s shoulder but all he could do was moan, sweaty palms slipping on the hood as the forceful rhythm didn’t stop. 

“There now. That’s better, don’t you think?” The man all but crooned into Peter’s ear, grinding upwards and making Peter keen, rising to his tiptoes. He grabbed at the officer’s arm and wrist, as if to pull his hand off Peter’s mouth, but instead held on, finally having something to tighten around and ground him. 

Peter didn’t give any coherent response to the comment. The man’s tone was somewhere between taunting and genuinely pleased and it was _hot_. He wrapped his other arm around Peter’s waist, getting a more firm hold. The size difference between them was sultry and made Peter squirm even more. When the officer’s hand ventured lower, he jolted in shock. “Shh. So needy and horny that you’d wear a plug like that out in public? I’ll give you what you need, baby boy, now be good for me.” 

The cop’s response was to fuck him harder and wrap his hand around Peter’s dick, squeezing the base. He didn’t start to stroke, though. All the man did was squeeze, holding back Peter’s pleasure. The pain somehow both dulled and enhanced his arousal and he groaned through the officer’s hand, which made the man hold even _tighter_ and turn Peter’s tormented sound into a high, needy whimper. He cheeks felt cold where tears made them wet. 

“What? Did you think I was going to let you come easily? Oh no,” the cop laughed, out of breath and choppy from his ruthless pace. He slowed before continuing, sheathing himself entirely inside Peter and simply rolling his hips in small cycles. The movement made Peter drool and struggle for breath through his nose. “You came once already just from letting your boyfriend play with you and getting thrown around a little. No, baby, this time you gotta _earn_ it.”

Peter was so lost in how good it felt, how tantalizing the officer's soft, slow, short rocking was, that he tried to beg for the man to tell him _how_. He wanted to come so bad, everything felt so good and he was burning up. He wanted to earn it. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Quentin. God, his boyfriend was going to hate him when he found out about this. But that didn’t make his dick any less hard, didn’t make him crave his orgasm any less. Peter felt desperate. He was all over the place, foggy and jumbled and _hot_ and he would do anything to come. 

The officer must have realized what Peter was trying to ask, because he smirked and licked a stripe up the side of Peter’s face, from where his hand covered to Peter’s hairline. It felt _filthy_ and Peter wanted him to do it again. “You wanna earn it?” 

Peter had probably never nodded faster in his life, spider-powers still struggling to move his head against the tight way the cop pinned him. 

“Desperate little thing,” the man hummed, still gently grinding within Peter, assaulting his prostate and holding off his orgasm with the grip on his cock, “You can earn it by making _me_ come. Be good and let me use this tight ass of yours, let me fill it up, and then we’ll see about you getting off again.” 

Peter groaned like the words physically hurt him, but nodded again, squirming as the image of the man’s come marking him warred in his head with the faint image of Quentin undoubtedly dumping him for this. He could do that. He could let the man fuck him until he was satisfied. _Anything_ to earn another orgasm. 

The officer seemed pleased by Peter’s reaction. He lightly bit at Peter’s cheek, teeth dragging against flushed, tear-streaked skin, and then slammed into him so hard Peter choked on air. The man picked up his pace once again, hammering into Peter’s smaller body and grunting into his hair. 

Without the hold on his dick, Peter definitely would have come from that. It was all he could think about. He felt full and used but that didn’t feel _wrong_. He was on cloud nine, moaning and drooling behind the officer’s hand, pliant putty in the man’s grip. If not for the cop bodily pinning him to the car, Peter would have collapsed for sure. 

He could barely feel his limbs, nothing but tension and heat and electricity coursing through him. His sweet spot felt _abused_ by that point. Overstimulated and overworked and Peter wanted _more_ of it. _Would_ have begged for more of it had the officer not muffled every sound that came out of him. 

And the man seemed to go on _forever_. 

Peter wasn’t sure whether they’d been there five minutes or fifteen minutes or five hours. He didn’t know if anyone had seen them; he stopped looking. His eyes were closed tight but that didn’t stop the tears from falling. Everything felt like _so much_. Like he couldn’t _breathe_. And it was so good that thinking of how devastated or angry (or _both_ ) Quentin would be was enough to make him cry harder but not enough to make him soften. Not even a _little_ bit. 

It didn’t help when the cop started to groan in his ear, taunts dripping praise and praise dripping taunts that should have scared Peter or made him uncomfortable or reminded him of all the reasons why this was _so wrong_ , but instead made him plead for his orgasm through the man’s hand. 

Then, just when Peter couldn’t possibly take it any more, the officer’s hips faltered, his rhythm stumbling out until he buried himself completely inside Peter. He continued with small thrusts to ride out his orgasm, pumping Peter full of his come, crushed in his arms as he hit his climax. He didn’t stop moving until he was finished and slumped, panting for breath. 

He let his hand fall from Peter’s mouth, instead resting on Peter’s chest, finally letting the vigilante gulp in the air he was deprived of. The officer all but collapsed forwards when he was finished. He pinned Peter’s body between his and the hood, and Peter honestly wouldn’t have minded (the weight was grounding and warm and not remotely as bad as it should have been) if he wasn’t still desperate to come. 

He’d barely caught his breath when he started begging, “Please, p-please sir, ‘m _so close_ , I-” words escaped him entirely when the cop’s hand finally began to stroke him. His grip was too loose and too slow but Peter didn’t care and sobbed in relief at having earned the friction.

Breathing was still a struggle. Even with his mouth freed, Peter was still pressed against his car by the officer who had no interest in giving Peter the slightest wiggle room. He hardly managed quick, desperate gasps between whimpers and moans and choking off. 

Being so close to the edge yet held off by a fraction of pain the entire time the cop fucked him made it impossible for Peter to last. It wasn’t like he wanted to anyways, though. All the pressure and the compressed energy building inside him came crashing violently into its peak. The police officer didn’t speed up to give him more, and he didn’t ease off once Peter started to come. 

His orgasm was _rough_. All of his muscles tensed and he would have crushed anything in his grip if his palms weren’t plastered to the smooth steel of the hood. His climax hit him like a freight train, incapacitating and tearing through him. He came hard all over the officer’s fist and the side of his car, trembling and crying fervently. 

The cop pumped him through it until he squirmed in overstimulation, and he couldn’t stop crying even after it was over. The release itself was one of the most intense he’d ever felt, but the reality of his situation settling in - that was a million times worse. 

He let a police officer fuck him, a _stranger_ he didn’t know, when his boyfriend was at home probably wondering what’s taking him so long. Peter wasn’t even coherent yet and the guilt was already eating him alive. He could barely move as the adrenaline from the sex and the orgasm ran out of him and he lay panting against the car. He had no idea what he was going to do next, he could hardly stay awake. 

The cop didn’t pay him any mind, pulling off him slowly, unwinding his arms. He pulled out with an uncomfortable sound that made Peter wince. Then something round, cold - the plug - pressed against him, sliding easily back inside. 

“There, for the mess.” The man said quietly. He didn’t sound as aggressive or mean (or _vulgar_ ) as before. Peter didn’t move - he didn’t think he could. He only shifted when the officer hiked his boxers and pants back up, not doing up his belt, simply making him decent. 

If “decent” was possible. 

Peter stayed put, draped over his car, overwhelmed, exhausted, nearing delirious, waiting for the sweet release of actual fucking death to rescue him. His ashamed sobbing continued for a while longer before he began to calm, but he still couldn’t quit shaking or crying. 

And then came something he _really_ was not expecting. 

“Hey, hey, shh,” a soft voice said. An _extremely familiar_ soft voice. “You’re alright, baby, shh, you’re ok. I’ve got you.” Quentin cooed. 

_Quentin_.

_Quentin?_

“Wh-wha..?” Peter mumbled. He tried to push himself off the hood and realized that his arms were liquified. God knew whether or not his legs would even support him.

Peter shook his head, trying to focus on the main issue. It didn’t make _sense_. There had to be something wrong. How was Quentin there?

“Easy, I know. I’ve got you,” Quentin repeated. Then there were hands on Peter’s biceps, one on his waist, pulling him off the car. His legs gave out, but he was scooped up and held against a broad chest. 

When Peter looked up - eyes still blurred by tears - he knew he must be dreaming. It was Quentin holding him close. 

“You’re not dreaming, baby boy, I’m here.” Quentin laughed. Had Peter said that out loud? Quentin kissed his forehead and stepped to the side, opening the back door of the car. 

The man looked like Quentin. He felt like Quentin, even smelled like Quentin’s aftershave and shampoo. But he wasn’t angry, or upset at all. He was calm and sweet and gentle - so maybe he was there to save Peter. 

Even though logically none of what was happening made sense, exhaustion - and the reminder that nothing that just happened was supposed to at all - made Peter much more pliable than he would have been otherwise. The drop after feeling so high overcame everything else, and as Quentin settled him into the back seat, Peter felt himself nodding off. 

He didn’t pass out. Not really. But he wasn’t all the way conscious until he was in Quentin’s arms again, being carried up the steps and set down softly on the couch in their living room. 

Peter knew he wasn’t far from home when he got pulled over, so he couldn’t have been out of it for long. 

Wait. Wait wait - he got pulled over. He was only loopy because he got pulled over, and then he - and then the officer - 

Oh shit. 

“Quentin, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t w-want to, I swear I didn’t, b-but then,” Peter started to hyperventilate. He knew he’d royally fucked up, and his throat closed up, keeping him from being able to suck in a deep breath of air. “I-I’m s-sorry, I’m-” 

“Shh, _relax_. You came pretty hard there, baby. I think you need to just sit a second, take a breather.” Quentin cut him off. He knelt in front of the couch, between Peter’s legs, and cupped Peter’s face with both hands, trying to meet his teary, darting eyes. Peter blanched. Oh god, so Quentin _saw?_ He knew already! Was this some kind of sick revenge trick, pretending to be nice just to throw Peter to the sharks in a second?

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Quent, I - I’m really r-really sorry, I, h-he made me a-and I know I could’ve stopped him b-but it _felt_ like I couldn’t and I’m - I’m s-so sorry!” Peter sobbed. He tried to curl in on himself, but Quentin didn’t let him, scooting closer and holding his face more firmly. 

“ _Hush_. Come on, calm down, Peter. You’re ok, I promise you’re alright - oh, you poor thing. I’m sorry baby boy, I didn’t mean to scare you so bad.” Quentin soothed. Peter frowned, finally looking at his boyfriend.

“Wh-what do you mean?” As if he wasn’t confused enough already, Quentin didn’t make any sense. What did he have to apologize for? And when had he scared Peter?

Quentin gave him a small, guilty smile. He shifted his weight from knee to knee, then rubbed at Peter’s quivering bottom lip with his thumbs. “Horny or not, Pete, do you really think your spider-sense would let some random creep fuck you on the side of the road?” 

What? No, really, _what_? Peter felt his eyes widen as he worked through Quentin's words. “What does that mean? Quentin, what are you saying?”

His boyfriend sighed. He looked somewhere between guilty and _smug_ and it was really throwing Peter off.

“You know about my illusion tech.” Quentin stated. It wasn’t a question - of course Peter knew about his tech. Peter nodded. “And when I said I’d be here, squirming. That it would torture me to stay home and think about you out there, too turned on to think striaght? I meant that, baby. So,” he paused, breaking their eye contact and tipping his head the way he does when he wanted Peter to figure out what he’s thinking without saying it. 

But Peter was really, very lost. 

“So…?”

Quentin sighed. “So I didn’t. Stay home. I didn’t stay home.” Peter still didn’t get it. Well, of course Quentin didn’t stay at home. He was there to see Peter come all over his car from having a stranger fuck him and jerk him off. 

His boyfriend must have realized that he still didn’t understand, because Quentin sighed again, defeated. Resigned to spelling it out. Usually, there was some annoyance there on the rare occasions when Peter couldn’t connect the dots, but Quentin seemed only patient now (and _guilty_ , still). 

“Peter. Baby. I used my illusions to make you think you were getting pulled over, and then disguised myself as a police officer and fucked you. There was no other guy, no stranger forced themselves on you. That was _me_ , Petey. You know, I’m a little offended that you think just anyone could make you come like that.” He finished on a lighter tone, with a playful smirk towards Peter.

Peter just stared blankly at him for a few seconds while he processed. 

And then he smacked Quentin’s shoulder, just barely remembering to reel in his strength to not harm the man. (Well. Not harm him _much_.)

“You asshole! You complete dick!” He grabbed the pillow next to him and hit Quentin in the face. His boyfriend was smiling, a little pained but smiling as he failed to dodge or block Peter’s pillow attack. “You’re a jerk! You’re a total fucking jerk!”

Quentin started to laugh but Peter wasn’t ready to brush it off yet. He felt his throat get tight and his eyes burning once again. “I thought cheated on you! I thought I was being _assaulted_! I thought I was cheating on you by letting some cop assault me! You fucking _jerk!_ ”

He choked up and his arms felt too weak to continue the onslaught (not that they had much strength to begin with) and sniffled, trying not to start crying again. Quentin winced when he saw Peter’s face, smile faltering back into sympathy and remorse.

“I’m sorry. I am. I really didn’t mean to scare you so much, baby." He rose from his knees and Peter made room for him on the couch. Quentin wrapped his arms around Peter again, pulling him in close and kissing his temples and forehead. “I know you’d never cheat on me, Peter. I know that. The only reason you let me even though you thought I was someone else is because I _wasn’t_ actually someone else. You should really trust your instincts more.” Quentin quipped. Peter sniffled again, but he did feel a little better. 

That much was true. Now that he thought about it, his spidey sense did have a perfect record of overcoming everything else when there was danger. Arousal included, considering all the times he’d sat in Quentin’s lap, grinding against the man only to have his senses go off and cockblock them.

He sniffled one last time and let out a deep breath, allowing the warmth of Quentin beside him to melt away the tension, anger and fear included.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin repeated for the third time. “I never meant to hurt you.” Peter hummed at the response. “But it _was_ pretty hot.” Quentin added. Peter rolled his eyes. 

“It was still a dick move.” 

Quentin laughed beside him, turning and tipping his chin up so he could kiss Peter’s lips. “Maybe,” Peter whispered. “Maybe a tiny, _tiny_ little bit hot. Still a dick move, though.” He kissed Quentin back, rising up to deepen it.

“Yeah, ok. Message received. I won’t do it again… At least not without talking to you first.” Quentin relented. He brought his hands up to cup Peter’s face again, kissing him softly and firmly. Peter scoffed at that, but didn’t argue, climbing over Quentin’s legs and into his lap.

“How ‘bout I make it up to you. Would you like that, baby? What do you want?” He grinned. Peter failed not to smile in return, kissing Quentin a little harder. 

“I’m sure you can figure something out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Who guessed what was coming?


End file.
